Elaine (From Idylls of the King) by Alfred Tennyson (Poem, Summary, Paraphrase & Analysis)

 

Elaine (From Idylls of the King)

by Alfred Tennyson

(Poem, Summary, Paraphrase & Analysis) 

Elaine (From Idylls of the King)

PART 1

 

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable,

Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,

High in her chamber up a tower to the east

Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;

Which first she placed where morning’s earliest ray

Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam;

Then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for it

A case of silk, and braided thereupon

All the devices blazoned on the shield

In their own tinct, and added, of her wit,

A border fantasy of branch and flower,

And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.

 

Nor rested thus content, but day by day,

Leaving her household and good father, climbed

That eastern tower, and entering barred her door,

Stripped off the case, and read the naked shield,

Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms,

Now made a pretty history to herself

Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,

And every scratch a lance had made upon it,

Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh;

That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;

That at Caerleon; this at Camelot;

And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there!

And here a thrust that might have killed, but God

Broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down

And saved him: so she lived in fantasy.

 

How came the lily maid by that good shield

Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name?

He left it with her, when he rode to tilt

For the great diamond in the diamond jousts,

Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name

Had named them, since a diamond was the prize.

 

For Arthur, long before they crowned him King,

Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse,

Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn.

A horror lived about the tarn, and clave

Like its own mists to all the mountain side:

For here two brothers, one a king, had met

And fought together; but their names were lost;

And each had slain his brother at a blow;

And down they fell and made the glen abhorr'd:

And there they lay till all their bones were bleached,

And lichened into colour with the crags:

And he that once was king had on a crown

Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside.

And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass,

All in a misty moonshine, unawares

Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and the skull

Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown

Rolled into light, and turning on its rims

Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn:

And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught,

And set it on his head, and in his heart

Heard murmurs, “Lo, thou likewise shalt be King.”

 

Thereafter, when a King, he had the gems

Plucked from the crown and showed them to his knights,

Saying, “These jewels, whereupon I chanced

Divinely, are the kingdom’s, not the King’s—

For public use: henceforth this jeweled spear

Be thou the brand of tournament, whereby

We will test truth: for here, in open field,

Who never yet stood victor in his life

Can win it: and who win it wears it not,

But gives it to the Queen, who shall be first

To clasp her hands about it in the court.”

And many a noble joust thereon ensued.

 

And in the last, the tenth, the mighty jousts,

Where went down many a knight, the Prince of knights,

Sir Lancelot, won, and gave the diamond to her,

The Queen of Love and Beauty, whom he loved

In silence, and as yet had never spoken.

 

So leave we him to pass the joyous day,

Till every hour might bring him fairer bliss,

And sweeter life, with Guinevere the Queen.

But she, that other, through her father’s care,

Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,

Forgot not Lancelot; and his helmet light

She kept, and in her secret chamber hung.

 

The rest of the story tells how Lancelot rode,

With others of the Table Round, to tilt

Once more for diamonds; how he changed his arms,

Lest Arthur, looking on his shield, should know

His favourite knight; and how the maid herself

Took on her love, and followed after him,

And tended him when wounded; and the tale

Runs on through sorrow, sweetness, and despair.

 

PART 2

So Lancelot rode, and when he came to Astolat

He left his own great shield in Arthur’s hall,

And took another, plain and unadorned,

Lest any knowing glance should fall on his.

And so he asked for lodging of the baron,

The good Sir Bernard of Astolat; and there

He rested, welcomed by the household all,

Save one, the youngest daughter of the three—

Elaine, the lily maid, whose heart began

To tremble even as she looked on him.

 

For when she saw the splendour of his face,

His courtesy, the sweetness of his speech,

His stately presence moving through the hall,

A love, half wonder, half adorning awe,

Stole through her like a flame. She bore his shield

Up to her tower, and placed it in the sun,

And touched the silken case as if it were

A holy thing; and longed for day on day

To speak with him, to serve him, to be near.

 

But he, intent on tourney and on war,

Thought nothing of the maiden’s hidden fire.

He asked her brother for his lance, and gave

His own in charge to her. “Keep this,” said he,

“For I shall need it when the jousts are done.”

And she, with downcast eyes and fluttering breath,

Received it, and her fingers brushed his own.

 

Then rode he forth, and all the noble knights

Assembled for the tourney in the plain

Beneath great Camelot; and there began

The shock, the splendid tumult of the spears,

The ringing armour and the thunderous steeds,

The cries of onset and the crash of shields,

The shouts of triumph and the groans of fall.

And Lancelot, though unknown because he bore

A strange new shield, smote down the mightiest,

And shone among them as a star in heaven.

Till Tristram knew him by the lordly stroke

And cried aloud, “The lion at his prey!”

And marked him for the noblest of the field.

 

But at the last the strong Sir Lancelot fell—

Not for a weaker hand, but for a ruse:

Sir Modred, creeping round him unaware,

Thrust at him from behind, and bore him down.

And all the crowd came round him where he lay,

And thought him dead; and mourned, and bore him off

To Astolat, back to Bernard’s quiet hall.

 

There the sweet maid, Elaine, with tender hands

Removed his armour, washed his wound, and laid

Her life about his life. She watched him long

Through fevered nights and strange delirious days,

Hearing him mutter in his broken dreams

One name, “Guinevere,” and then again

“Ay, Queen of Beauty, Queen of Love, my Queen!”

 

And when he woke, and found her weeping near,

He thanked her gently, as a knight should thank

A noble maiden who had saved his life;

But never guessed the torment in her breast,

The trembling rapture in her eyes, the pain

That burned her day and night with hopeless flame.

 

And she, too meek to speak one word of love,

Too pure to murmur at her cruel fate,

Nursed him with patient sweetness, prayed for him,

And laid her young heart at his feet unseen,

Until her father saw, and sorrowed sore

To mark her pining with a secret wound.

 

Thus passed the days; and slowly strength returned

To Lancelot, till at last he rose again

And stood once more in manhood and in might.

Then would he go, and mount his steed, and ride

Back to the King, and to the Table Round.

And she, poor child, beholding his intent,

Turned deadly pale, and clasped her hands, and said:

 

“Fair lord, take with thee this poor token then—

My favour—at the jousts; for never yet

Hath maiden given thee gift.” And therewithal

She brought a crimson sleeve, and trembled sore.

And he, nowise perceiving all her love,

Smiled kindly, and accepted it, and said:

 

“Gentle Elaine, I thank thee for thy grace.

Who wears a lady’s favour in his helm

Should honour it in all the lists of fame.”

And she, with wild heart beating, blessed the day

That he would bear her gift before the world.

 

Then forth he rode; and she, with breaking heart,

Stood in her tower and watched him till he passed

Among the distant hills and was no more.

 

PART 3

So Lancelot rode, and in the lists he shone

Above all knights, for though his wound was deep,

His mightier spirit bore his body through.

And all men marvelled at the unknown knight

Who wore a maiden’s crimson sleeve, and smote

The strongest from the saddle. Arthur’s self

Beheld him and was stirred, and Guinevere,

In wonder, watched the splendor of his fame—

Not knowing him, yet troubled in her heart.

 

For who was he that bore a lady’s gift

And would not show his face? A pang of doubt,

A sudden jealous anger seized the Queen—

A fear that Lancelot, secret in the lists,

Had given to some new maid the pledge of love

He once had given her.

And when the tourney ended and the knights

Came to the dais, she with wounded pride

Turned coldly from him—knowing not he bled

Beneath the armour for her sake alone.

 

Meanwhile at Astolat the lily maid

Dwelt day by day with sorrow in her eyes.

For when Sir Lancelot sent back word of thanks,

And prayed her father for his shield again,

She heard the message and her heart grew faint.

He sent her loving thanks indeed, but not

One word of love—no hope, no tender sign

That he had guessed her passion.

And worse than all,

She learned he wore her crimson token still

Before the world; yet when she dreamed of him

It was the Queen whose name he murmured first.

 

Then did her father, grieved at her distress,

Speak gently with her:

“Child, my child,

Is this thy love? Alas, it may not be.

A noble knight is he, but far above

Thy station; and his heart is given elsewhere.

Look up, dear Elaine. This sickness hath no cure

Save time and holy patience. Leave it now,

And turn to God.”

But she, with quiet voice:

“I cannot, Father. All my heart is his.

And though he love me not, it is my fate.

I would not break the heart that loves so well

For any comfort earth can give to me.”

 

And evermore her gentle spirit drooped,

Her cheek grew pale, her step grew slow and light,

Her eyes grew larger with the inward fire

Of one consuming thought.

Her brother said:

“O sister, leave this sorrow. It is vain.

Why shouldst thou fade for one who thinks not thus?”

But she replied:

“It is the will of Heaven.

I loved him. That is all.”

 

So wore the weeks

Till scarcely could she rise or walk or speak,

Yet still she kept Sir Lancelot’s shield, and laid

Her cheek upon it when she could not sleep,

And prayed for him in silence.

Oft she crept

At dawn to see if those returning knights

Came up the pathway from the distant vale;

And once she cried—

“He comes! He comes again!”

And fluttering down the stair with failing strength,

Beheld—not him—but Gareth and Gawain there,

Who bore the shield and message from the court.

 

Sir Gawain, with his courtly grace, looked long

Upon the maid, and marvelled at her face—

So pale, so pure, so strangely spiritual—

And guessed the truth.

“Ah maiden,” said the knight,

“Thou lovest Lancelot. Tell me, is it so?”

And she, too weak to frame a guileful word,

Looked up on him with honest eyes, and said:

“I love Sir Lancelot. Yes, I love him well.”

 

Sir Gawain, moved to pity, yet half pleased

That Lancelot should have stirred so sweet a heart,

Told all the tale at Camelot, and stirred

The idle court to whispers and surmise.

But when Queen Guinevere heard Gawain’s words,

A bitter wrath rose in her heart; she cried:

“Sir Lancelot false? Sir Lancelot faithless? Nay!

He would not stoop to such a childish love.

This is Gawain’s light babble and no more.”

 

But Lancelot, hearing all, grew troubled sore.

“I cannot wound her,” said he. “I must go

And answer truly that I love her not,

And pray her gentle pardon.”

Thus he rode

Back unto Astolat, and the lily maid,

Hearing his horse, rose faintly from her bed,

And tottered to the casement for one look

Upon her heart’s desire.

 

He entered in—

And saw her dying. All the fragile bloom

Had withered from her cheek; her spirit shone

Like some pure flame about to pass away.

Yet when she saw him standing by her bed,

A flush of rapture lighted up her face,

And she stretched out her trembling hands and cried:

“My lord! My lord! Art come at last to me?”

 

He sat beside her, sorrowful and still,

And took her wasted hands and gently spoke:

“Elaine, sweet friend, I never knew till now

Thy love for me. Forgive me. I am bound—

Bound by my vows, my honour, and my Queen.

I cannot love thee as thy heart desires,

Though thou art good and gracious in my sight.”

 

She whispered:

“It is well. I ask no more.

I loved thee, and I love thee—till I die.

I shall not trouble anyone again.”

 

And slowly, as she held his hand in hers,

Her spirit ebbed away like fading light

When evening deepens on a lonely hill.

 

PART 4

So died the lily maid of Astolat.

And when her gentle spirit passed away,

A great peace fell upon her quiet face,

As though she slept and dreamed of perfect love.

Her father, grieving, laid her on her bed,

And crossed her hands upon her breast, and wept.

Her brothers stood beside her, dumb with grief,

And in the hall the maidens sobbed for her

Who had been sweet to all.

 

But Lancelot

Went forth in silence, sick at heart, and rode

Back to the court in sorrow and in shame.

“I slew her not,” he murmured, “yet I know

Her death hath come through me. Ah, simple maid!

Why lovedst thou one who could not give thee love?”

 

Meanwhile her father, pondering many things,

Remembered words she spoke before she died:

“I have a prayer—fulfil it when I’m gone.”

And when he asked her what that prayer might be,

She answered:

“Let me in my barge be borne

Down to the palace of the noble King.

Lay in my hand a letter, and let pass

The boat upon the silent flood alone,

Until it reach the steps of Camelot.”

 

For such strange will she uttered, that the baron

Promised it faithfully; and when she died,

They did according to her tender wish.

They placed her in the barge; they laid her down

Clad in her snowy robes; they crossed her hands

Upon her breast; they placed the sealed letter

Between her fingers; and they set her head

Upon a pillow white as any foam.

 

And so they launched her on the river’s breast—

Her pale face floating in the quiet light,

Her hair like drifting gold upon the boards,

Her body still and pure as sculptured stone.

No voice was heard; no oars disturbed the stream;

Only the current took her tenderly,

And bore her like a lily down the tide.

 

Thus moved she towards the palace and the King—

A strange, sad sight beneath the fading sky.

The people, wandering by the river’s edge,

Beheld the silent barge and crossed themselves,

And whispered: “What is this? A ghost? A sign?

Some holy maiden taken up to heaven?”

 

But slowly gliding, ever gliding on,

The barge drew nearer to the palace wall,

Where Arthur sat at council with his knights.

And there, beneath the many-carven stairs,

The boat touched softly; and the watchmen saw

A dead maid lying in the lonely craft,

And straightway called the lords and knights around.

 

Then all the Table Round came silent forth,

And gathered marvelling round the strange white face.

The King himself stepped down and gazed on her,

And said:

“This is a gentle maiden dead.

Who is she? And what brings her here to us?”

And Tristram answered, bending low:

“My lord,

This is the lily maid of Astolat.”

 

Then Arthur said:

“Take from her hand the scroll.”

And Gawain took it, and the King declared:

“Read out her words before us all.”

And he

Read slowly, for his voice was touched with awe:

 

“Most noble lord, King Arthur,

I, Elaine,

Daughter of Bernard of Astolat, am dead.

For love of Lancelot I grew sick and died.

I ask no blame upon him; for he loved

The Queen, and could not love a maid like me.

But O my lord, I pray thee, for the sake

Of all my tears and all my faithful pain,

That Lancelot shall bury me.

This done,

I rest in peace.

—Elaine of Astolat.”

 

When thus the letter ended, all the knights

Stood silent, moved at heart. And Arthur said:

“Alas for such a love! Too pure, too deep,

Too perfect for this world.

Where is Sir Lancelot?

Let him be called.”

 

And he came forth and stood

Before them all, with sorrow in his face.

And when he looked upon her, pale and still,

He bowed his head, and tears ran down his cheeks.

And Guinevere, beholding him, grew white

And trembled, for a fear smote through her heart—

A fear that what she deemed mere idle tale

Had been a deeper truth than she believed.

 

And Arthur gently said:

“My friend and knight,

This maiden loved thee with a perfect love.

It was her prayer that thou shouldst lay her down

In holy earth.

Go then, and do her will.”

 

And Lancelot answered, bowed with grief:

“My King,

I will obey. God knows I meant her not

One sorrow. She was good and true and kind.

I shall remember her while life shall last.”

 

Then with great honour was the maiden borne

By knights and nobles to the minster yard,

And laid to rest with solemn chant and prayer.

And Lancelot, walking after with bare head,

Stooped down and kissed her gently on the brow,

And murmured:

“Sweet Elaine, farewell!

Thy love was better than much life to me.”

 

So passed she from the earth; but in the court

Her story lingered long, and many hearts

Were softened when they spoke of Astolat—

Of the white lily floating down to death,

And of the maiden’s simple, faithful love.

 

Summary

Elaine of Astolat was a gentle, pure-hearted young woman who lived with her father, Sir Bernard, and her brothers in their quiet home near Camelot. One day the great knight Sir Lancelot stopped there on his way to a royal tournament. He carried his famous shield, but not wishing to be recognized in the lists, he left it in their keeping and asked for another to use instead.

Elaine, who had never seen a knight so noble and courteous, felt her heart stir the moment she met him. She carried his real shield up to her chamber in the tower and placed it where the morning light could shine on it. There she would go day after day, studying the dents and scratches on its surface, imagining the battles he had fought and dreaming about the knight she had begun to love in silence.

Before leaving for the tournament, Lancelot asked Elaine to keep his shield safely. She, trembling with shy joy, agreed. On the morning he departed, she begged him to wear a small token from her—a red sleeve. He accepted it kindly, not understanding how deeply she loved him, and rode away.

At the tournament, Lancelot fought with unmatched skill. No one recognized him because of his borrowed shield, but all admired the unknown knight wearing the crimson token. Queen Guinevere herself watched with interest—then with jealousy—wondering who had given him the sleeve. In the end, Lancelot was wounded and carried secretly back to Astolat, where Elaine nursed him with tender devotion.

During his fevered dreams he spoke only one name: Guinevere. Hearing this broke Elaine’s heart, yet she continued to care for him with patience and gentleness. As Lancelot recovered, she grew visibly weaker. Her father and brothers saw her growing pale and sorrowful, but she would not confess to anyone except Gawain, who guessed the truth: she loved Lancelot, and her love was hopeless.

At last Lancelot healed and prepared to return to the court. Elaine, unable to hide her grief, watched him ride away with quiet despair. After he left, her strength failed. Her family pleaded with her to forget him, but she answered simply that she could not; her love was part of her, and she would love him until death.

Her grief slowly consumed her. When Lancelot heard what had happened, he came back to Astolat—but by then Elaine was dying. She looked up at him with joy as he entered her chamber, and he gently told her that though he honored her deeply, his heart belonged elsewhere. Elaine smiled through her tears, saying she asked for nothing in return. She held his hand peacefully and drifted out of life.

Before she died, she made one last request: that her body be placed in a small boat, with a letter in her hand, and sent down the river to King Arthur’s palace. Her family did as she wished. They laid her in the barge, dressed in white, with her golden hair flowing about her, and set the silent vessel afloat.

The boat drifted slowly down the river and stopped beneath the palace steps at Camelot. The knights gathered in awe around the still figure. They opened the letter, written in Elaine’s own hand. In it she explained that she had died of love for Lancelot, that he was guiltless of her death, and that she wished only that he would lay her in her grave.

When Lancelot saw her lifeless face, he was moved with sorrow. He knelt beside her and kissed her brow, whispering a tender farewell to the maiden who had loved him utterly.

 

Elaine was buried with great honor, and her story lived on: the tale of the lily maiden of Astolat, whose love was pure, steadfast, and tragically unreturned.

 

Paraphrase

Part 1

Elaine of Astolat—the gentle, beautiful young woman often called the “lily maid”—lived in a tower room on the east side of her father’s house. In that tall room she kept something precious: Sir Lancelot’s shield, which he had left in her care.

She placed the shield where the first rays of the morning sun would strike it, letting its gleam wake her from sleep. Afraid that it might get dirty or scratched, she made a delicate silk covering for it, carefully decorating it with the symbols and patterns painted on the shield itself. Around the edges she added her own designs—branches, flowers, and even tiny birds in their nests.

But simply making the case wasn’t enough for her. Every day she climbed up to her tower, shut herself inside, removed the silk covering, and studied the shield closely. She imagined stories about every mark on its surface—this dent from one battle, that scratch from another. She guessed when and where each blow had been struck: one here at Caerlyle, another there at Caerleon, another at Camelot. She marveled at the strength of the blows Lancelot must have endured, and how some strikes might have killed him if God had not intervened.

All of this she created in her imagination, building a private world around the famous knight whose shield she guarded.

How did Elaine, who didn’t even know Lancelot’s name at first, end up with his shield?

He had left it there when he came to Astolat to prepare for a grand tournament King Arthur had arranged—the tournament in which the winner would receive a precious diamond.

 

Part 2

Lancelot stayed hidden in Astolat, wearing plain armor so no one would recognize him. Before leaving for the tournament, he asked Elaine once more if she was sure she wanted to keep his shield. She insisted she would guard it carefully, treasuring it as a symbol of honor. Her brother Lavaine prepared to ride with Lancelot, excited to fight beside such a legendary knight.

As they set out, Elaine watched from the window of the tower. Her heart clung to Lancelot with a love she herself barely understood—something pure, hopeful, and painfully deep. She whispered a prayer for his safety as the two riders disappeared into the distance.

Lancelot and Lavaine traveled quietly, avoiding the main roads so no one would identify him. Lancelot knew that if he fought openly, people would recognize his style and strength, and everyone would guess that he had disguised himself to challenge Arthur’s other knights. That would bring trouble. So he planned to stay unknown until the end.

When they reached the tournament city, the place was bursting with banners, musicians, crowds, noblewomen in balconies, and knights polishing their armor. Lancelot found a simple lodging with Lavaine, keeping out of sight.

Meanwhile, in Camelot, Arthur’s knights gathered in grand formation. Guinevere watched from above, looking for Lancelot. When he did not appear, she grew anxious and frustrated. “He stays away too often,” she thought. “Where is he? What keeps him?”

Although she said nothing aloud, the absence of Lancelot felt like a quiet storm within her.

Back at the tournament, the trumpets sounded. The first day’s combat began. Lancelot, disguised in plain armor with a red sleeve tied onto his helmet, entered the lists. No one knew who he was—only that his skill was extraordinary. He rode with precision and courage, striking down the strongest knights on Arthur’s side.

Gawain watched the mysterious knight, amazed:

“No ordinary warrior rides like that.”

Soon the unknown knight became the talk of the field.

Arthur, observing from above, noted the stranger’s excellence but felt a twinge of concern. The man was too powerful, too skilled, too familiar. Something about the way he handled his horse stirred suspicion in the king’s heart.

As the first day ended, everyone gathered in the hall to share food and stories. The talk of the evening was the unknown champion with the red sleeve. Queen Guinevere, though silent, felt a sharp suspicion rising inside her. Deep down, she sensed the truth:

That was Lancelot.

But she could not prove it.

On the second day, the clashes grew more intense. Arthur’s team fought brilliantly, yet the unknown knight was unstoppable. A group of Arthur’s knights—including Bors, Lionel, and others—joined forces to bring him down. The crowd gasped as lances shattered and horses buckled. At last, one blow pierced Lancelot’s side. Though severely wounded, he hid the injury, fought on foot with fierce strength, and broke free of the knights’ circle.

Bleeding and exhausted, he retreated from the field with Lavaine’s help.

Meanwhile, Arthur and Gawain tried to guess who the mysterious champion was. Gawain said:

“Whoever he is, he fights like Lancelot.”

Arthur agreed quietly, though without joy.

Back at Astolat, Elaine’s father waited anxiously for news. The shield she guarded felt more precious each day. She would polish it, hold it close, and speak softly to it as if it carried Lancelot’s presence. She longed for the moment he would return so she could care for him and perhaps win his affection.

 

Part 3

When the tournament ended, Lavaine helped the severely injured Lancelot escape unnoticed. They rode slowly back toward Astolat, stopping often because Lancelot was faint from the loss of blood. Lavaine worried that the wound might be fatal, but Lancelot remained silent, determined not to show weakness.

By nightfall they reached the quiet tower of Astolat. Elaine saw them approaching and ran out to meet them. The moment she saw Lancelot leaning heavily against her brother, pale and trembling, she cried out in fear. She immediately guided him inside and prepared a room where he could rest.

Elaine tended to Lancelot with gentle devotion. She washed the wound, applied healing herbs, and cared for him with the pure dedication of someone whose entire heart belonged to him. Lancelot could see the sincerity in her eyes—the kind of innocent love he had rarely known.

Days passed. Lancelot grew healthier under Elaine’s careful hands. Lavaine admired his sister’s patience and warmth, but their father, Sir Bernard, began to notice something deeper. Watching Elaine sit silently beside Lancelot’s bed, he wondered whether her heart had become too entangled.

One evening, Sir Bernard approached Lancelot privately and asked him frankly,

“Sir, do you intend to repay the love my daughter bears you? Or should I persuade her to forget such hopes?”

Lancelot, honest and noble even in discomfort, replied gently,

“I am unworthy of her love, for my heart cannot give back what she offers. She deserves a better man—one who can love her completely. I can never offer her marriage. She must be told this with great care.”

Sir Bernard sighed in sorrow. He loved Elaine deeply and did not want her heart broken. Yet he admired Lancelot’s honesty.

Meanwhile, Elaine herself sensed the truth, though she tried not to believe it. She treasured every moment she was able to serve him—changing his bandages, preparing his meals, simply sitting near him. But she also felt a growing ache, a silent fear that her dreams might remain unanswered.

Eventually Lancelot healed enough to travel. He rose from his bed and put on his armor. Elaine watched him prepare to leave. Her hands trembled as she handed him back the shield she had guarded so lovingly.

At last she could not hold back her feelings.

She stood before him and said bravely, yet softly,

“My lord, I love you. I know I am not worthy of you, but I love you with all my heart. If you cannot love me, then please let me serve you in some humble way—anything, so long as I remain near you.”

Lancelot’s face showed deep sadness. He respected her purity and devotion, and he wished he could take away her pain.

But his answer was steady:

“I cannot return your love. My heart lies elsewhere. I honor you more than I can say, but I cannot give you what you desire. You must not waste your life loving me.”

Elaine turned pale and silent. She did not weep or plead. Her pain was too deep for words.

Lancelot mounted his horse to leave. Lavaine rode with him, planning to join Arthur’s court. Elaine stood at the tower gate, watching them disappear. She did not scream or faint—she simply stared, as if some living part of her soul rode away with Lancelot forever.

After they were gone, she walked slowly to her room, sat down, and folded her hands. She looked out the window at the empty road and whispered to herself,

“He will never love me.”

From that day on, Elaine began to fade. Her spirit grew weaker, though she did not complain. She moved softly through the house like a person already half parted from the world. Her father saw it. Her brother saw it. But no one could heal a wound of the heart.

 

Part 4

Days passed in Astolat, and everyone in the house could see Elaine growing weaker. She did not speak of her sorrow, nor did she blame Lancelot. She simply carried the weight of unreturned love quietly inside her. She moved gently, smiled faintly, and tried to hide her pain, but her strength was fading.

Her father, Sir Bernard, sat beside her many times, urging her to eat, to rest, to think of her future. Elaine only replied softly,

“My future lies behind me, not ahead. What I gave, I gave once and forever.”

As the days went on, her body weakened as though her heart had been hollowed out. Eventually she took to her bed. The doctor who came to see her shook his head. “She has no illness,” he said. “She is dying of love.”

One evening, when her father and brothers were gathered around her, she asked them all to listen. With a calm, clear voice, she said she wished to speak her last desires.

She asked her brother Lavaine to return to Arthur’s court and serve there honorably. She asked her father to forgive her for causing pain. And then, after a pause, she revealed her final wish:

“When I die, place me on a barge all dressed in white. Lay a letter in my hand. Let the boat drift down the river to Camelot. Whoever finds me will read my words and understand the truth.”

Her father burst into tears. Lavaine turned away, unable to bear her calm acceptance of death. But Elaine remained serene. She was not bitter, not angry. She simply loved, and her love had no place to go but heaven.

That night, with her father holding one hand and her brother holding the other, Elaine breathed her last. Her face looked peaceful, as though she slept.

Her family prepared her as she had requested. They dressed her in white silk, placed lilies around her, and laid her gently in a small barge. Her letter—beautifully written in her own hand before her strength faded—was placed on her breast.

At dawn, the river was calm. Her father and brothers guided the barge to the center of the stream and let it drift. They watched as the current carried her slowly away, her face still serene in death.

The people along the riverbanks stared in amazement as the silent barge floated past—white, pure, and ghostlike. No one touched it. No one dared to. It seemed like something sacred passing by.

Far downstream, in Camelot, Arthur and Guinevere were sitting in the great hall when a servant rushed in, breathless, saying that a strange boat had arrived with a maiden lying motionless inside.

Arthur rose immediately and walked to the water’s edge, followed by the queen and many knights. They found the barge resting quietly against the bank. Elaine lay there, beautiful even in death, surrounded by white cloth and flowers.

Arthur took the letter from her hand and read it aloud. In it, Elaine told her story simply and truthfully—how she had loved Sir Lancelot, how he had been kind but could not return her feelings, and how she wished no blame or sorrow upon him. She asked only that her love be remembered without shame.

The court fell silent. Guinevere stood still, feeling a sharp, complicated pain within herself. Lancelot, who had arrived earlier with Lavaine, stood apart from the crowd. When he saw Elaine, he was overwhelmed with grief.

He whispered,

“Sweet soul, I meant you no harm.”

Arthur ordered that Elaine be buried with full honor. Her funeral was beautiful and solemn, attended by knights and ladies of the court, for all were moved by the purity of her love.

Lancelot himself paid for her tomb and asked that the inscription remember her as “the lily maid of Astolat.” He visited the grave quietly when no one was around, mourning the gentle heart that had loved him so deeply and asked for nothing in return.

 

Analysis in Detail

Alfred Tennyson’s “Lancelot and Elaine” presents one of the most tragic and tender episodes of Idylls of the King, exploring unrequited love, moral conflict, and the painful collision between innocence and a corrupted chivalric world. Through Elaine, Tennyson portrays an ideal of pure, selfless devotion—a love untouched by manipulation or worldly desire. In contrast, Lancelot embodies the complexities and contradictions of a knight torn between honor and a forbidden passion that stains his life. The poem’s emotional power lies in how these two figures meet and then drift apart, leaving behind a lingering sense of beauty intertwined with sorrow.

At the center of the poem is Elaine’s love, which Tennyson casts in almost luminous purity. She is young, untouched by courtly intrigue, and governed by a sincere heart. Her attachment to Lancelot grows naturally the moment she safeguards his shield—a symbolic gesture that becomes a metaphor for how she holds his true identity close to her soul. Whereas the Arthurian court is full of suspicion, whispered scandals, and hidden transgressions, Elaine’s world is still naïve and uncorrupted. Her love is not born of desire for attention, power, or prestige; rather, it springs from admiration and reverence. She loves Lancelot simply because she sees him as noble, heroic, and honorable. Tennyson intentionally presents her love as a spiritual devotion, which makes her tragedy even more poignant: she gives her entire self to something that can never be returned.

Lancelot, on the other hand, stands as the embodiment of conflicted chivalry. Though the greatest of Arthur’s knights, he is deeply flawed. His illicit love for Queen Guinevere shadows everything he does, and that moral confusion becomes the reason he cannot respond to Elaine. Tennyson uses Lancelot to show the cost of divided loyalty. His heart is committed to a love that contradicts the very ideals he is sworn to uphold. When Elaine expresses her devotion, Lancelot recognizes her purity and respects it, but he cannot accept it. His rejection stems not from cruelty or indifference—indeed, Tennyson makes clear that Lancelot genuinely admires and cares for Elaine—but from the tragic imprisonment of his own emotional life. The moral weight of his relationship with Guinevere bars him from experiencing love in any innocent form. Thus, Lancelot becomes a sympathetic but morally compromised figure: a man who wishes to do right yet perpetually fails because of the unhealed wound of his own forbidden longing.

One of the most powerful contrasts in the poem arises from the juxtaposition of Elaine’s innocence with the court’s moral decay. Camelot in this idyll is a place where appearances matter more than sincere virtue. Rumors about the queen’s affair with Lancelot are widespread; suspicion and jealousy shape the politics of the round table. When Lancelot appears at the tournament in disguise, it is not for the sake of honor but to avoid Guinevere’s anger and to shield his reputation. Tennyson subtly suggests that the world of Arthur is already cracked beneath its shiny surface. Into this troubled landscape, Elaine enters as a figure of light and simplicity. Her sincerity exposes the court’s insincerity and highlights the emotional exhaustion of Lancelot’s life. In a world where love has become a secret and shameful burden, Elaine’s pure affection appears almost miraculous—yet tragically fragile.

Elaine’s death is the soul of the poem. It is neither melodramatic nor accidental but portrayed as a slow fading—the result of emotional suffering too deep for her gentle nature to endure. Tennyson frames her death not as weakness but as an expression of absolute devotion. She dies not because she was fragile but because she loved completely in a world where such love had no place. Her final request—to be sent after death in a barge to Camelot with a letter explaining her true story—demonstrates both her innocence and her quiet courage. She does not seek revenge or to shame Lancelot; her letter is free from bitterness. Instead, she seeks to clear the air, to leave behind truth where misunderstanding and rumor often reign. The serene image of her drifting into Camelot becomes one of the most haunting scenes in Victorian poetry: the dead girl dressed in white, surrounded by lilies, entering the corrupted court like a silent rebuke to all its falsehoods.

The reactions to her arrival further highlight the moral currents of the poem. Arthur is deeply moved, seeing in Elaine a symbol of purity the court desperately lacks. Guinevere’s reaction is more complex—she is touched by Elaine’s innocence but also tormented by jealousy and guilt. Lancelot’s grief, meanwhile, is not theatrical but deeply human. He acknowledges Elaine’s love and mourns the pain he caused her, even unintentionally. In honoring her with the title “the lily maid of Astolat,” Lancelot shows a moment of moral clarity: an understanding that her love was something he did not deserve and could never repay.

Ultimately, Tennyson uses “Lancelot and Elaine” to illustrate a broader theme that echoes throughout Idylls of the King: purity cannot survive in a world corroded by hidden sin. Elaine represents what Camelot was meant to be—a place of truth, loyalty, and honest love. Lancelot represents what Camelot has become—magnificent on the outside but weakened by internal conflict and private guilt. The tragedy of Elaine is therefore not only personal; it symbolizes the tragedy of Arthur’s entire kingdom. Her death marks another step toward the eventual downfall of the Round Table, as each moral failure contributes to the unraveling of the ideals Arthur sought to establish.

In the end, “Lancelot and Elaine” stands as one of Tennyson’s most emotionally charged works because it marries personal heartbreak with moral symbolism. Elaine’s love becomes an emblem of purity lost, of innocence defeated by the complexities of human desire. Lancelot’s sorrow becomes the sorrow of a man who sees too late the beauty of a love he could never have embraced. Through delicate imagery, psychological depth, and moral reflection, Tennyson shapes a narrative that continues to resonate as a study of unreturned affection, inner conflict, and the painful cost of flawed devotion